


no object is left unmarked by the state of being adored

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Violence, Classism, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hell's Hierarchy, Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Torture, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: Ever since 3004 BC, all low-ranking demons are tortured every century.Crowley has to deal with the trauma from those episodes, but Aziraphale lends an unexpected helping hand.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 194
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 10





	no object is left unmarked by the state of being adored

**Author's Note:**

> for an extra at hc-bingo, mixing the prompts ritualized pain/injury, learning to be loved, runaways and taking care of somebody. 
> 
> used choose not to warn bc i'm pretty sure that the violence isn't graphic enough to warrant the warning, but i'm still not comfortable with using no warnings apply.
> 
> enjoy!

Crowley doesn't have  _ proof _ of it, per se, but he's sure that this rule was created purely to make him suffer by Lucifer himself. Otherwise, it makes no sense— he's the only low-ranking demon to have gone against what most demons do, the serpent who once was like a lost puppy following him but wasn't anymore. Of course Lucifer has a vendetta against him, and of course he's looking to punish him (and punish every other demon in the same position as him in the same breath).

"It'll keep all low-ranking demons in their place," Beelzebub (a fucking Lord) had told him one night, exactly three weeks after the Flood. 

"Are you taking a page out of humans' books?" he asks dryly. He's seen plenty of things, things that were all destroyed, only Noah and his family and all the animals being left behind. He's seen humans' brutality, and he knows Hell has had its influence on it (they've gathered plenty of souls for Lucifer); now they're going to inflict that same brutality on their own. Great. "With, you know, brutality, violence, all that?"

Beelzebub chuckles. "I guess you could say so."

Three days later, he can't feel his lower half at all. And no one else than Hastur (a  _ Duke _ ) is responsible for that. He's smiling at him like he's prey, dead-black eyes twinkling in interest at the sight of him. He's bleeding, far more than any human would be capable of, a large pool of blood surrounding his lower half.

He's in so much pain he can barely breathe, any coherent thought escaping him at the last second. His mind goes back again and again to the fact that he wanted to save the kids. He wanted to save the kids, for Her to not kill the children, to not let them drown. Could Lucifer tell? Did he read his mind? Is this a punishment for it, for wanting to save the smallest, most vulnerable, most innocent humans?

He retches, clawing at the cold cement floor, the collar around his neck prohibiting him from escaping the situation. 

"Low scum like you should not be allowed to roam Earth," Hastur tells him, grabbing him by his hair. His once well-done braid is loosened and a disaster, dampened with his own blood. He gasps and meets his eye, shaking a little, pain pulsing throughout his body without a stop. "But I guess Lucifer wants to see his plaything have a little freedom." He throws him back onto the ground, his spine making a  _ crack! _ sound that makes him wince. "But if it were for me, you'd be stuck here, Crawly. If it were for the other Dukes and Lords, too. The lowest of the low don't deserve freedom."

He lets out a pitiful sob, a fine line of blood dribbling down his forehead from the impact against the cement. Slowly, Hastur leans in and removes the collar. 

"You can go now."

He whimpers, clears his throat. "When— when's the next one?" he asks. He knows it's not going to be every time he's bad at being a demon (or at least he hopes not— he'd spend most of his immortality down there, bleeding profusely). He knows it's maintenance. To keep them all in their place. He wishes he had the guts to go to Lucifer and ask him if everyone else is collateral damage. If he's the true target of this onslaught of violence on their own kind.

But he can't, so he doesn't, so he deals with it.

Hastur shrugs. "Every century or so, I'd reckon."

He swallows thickly and nods, slowly healing himself up. He stays there for several hours, higher ranking demons staring and whispering, sometimes talking loudly about torturing other low ranks, just to taunt the one sitting there, still attempting to fix his broken spine, his head, his fucked up legs.

* * *

He goes through precisely fifty maintenance beatings until the Apocalypse comes and he vows to himself to never go back to Hell.

The Apocalypse doesn't  _ actually _ come, per se, but the prospect of it changes his world view. He decides there are more important things than being faithful to a group he joined a six thousand years ago. Namely, his love for Aziraphale.

He can tell Aziraphale is also damaged, but as far as he knows, Heaven does  _ not _ have maintenance beatings. So he should be better than him, at least. The trial (or lack thereof) made him see Heaven was just as bad, maybe even worse, as it was back when he left at the Beginning. How they tried to kill his sweet angel and failed to. 

But, again, beatings, bloodied things, did not seem to be routine up there. So Aziraphale should be a little better off than him. Now that he's run away from Hell, he can learn to deal with the scars that it left in him.

It's not — at least they're not physical scars. He's thankful that he can shapeshift, completely alter his physical appearance, let nothing mark him up forever. The mere thought of having scars of when he's been cut into by a Duke or a Lord makes him seethe. But he can shapeshift, so it's okay.

He still has bad days. He still tries to hide it from Aziraphale, tries to be happy-happy as they go live down in their cottage on South Downs. Away from Heaven and away from Hell. Just the two of them, forever, until they decide to launch Armageddon once again. The thought makes his skin crawl, but he has to 'live in the moment', as humans say. So he tries to.

He's been learning to cook. They can always go to restaurants, but it's a lot cozier to do it at home, and doing it like humans do.

He hasn't had a moment like this in a long while. But his hand slips and he cuts himself with the sharp knife he was cutting up the steak with, and there's  _ blood _ . His panic and the memories being thrown at him only make more of it start pouring out of the once-small cut.

He collapses onto the floor, holding his hand to his chest, breathing hard. He can't think, being bombarded with memories of the maintenance beatings.

_ He's bleeding. He's bleeding so fucking much and there's something on his back, being branded into it with hot iron. He sobs, struggling against the hard concrete. He can't see it, Hastur pressing it into him, pressed against the concrete without a say in it. He can't see it, but he knows what it is. A snake. _

He doesn't quite realize this, but he's crying. Quiet sobs he hasn't let himself shed for a long time, maybe centuries, tears sliding down his cheeks as he shakes and clutches his hand. He's bleeding too much for a cut that small, but it doesn't matter. It's still  _ blood _ , it's still memories eating at him in a way they haven't in years. 

"Dear?"

Aziraphale sticks his head through the door, and his eyes widen.

"Dear boy! Are you okay?" 

He runs towards him and immediately grabs him, pulls his hand away from his chest. There's a damp, bloody spot in his dark shirt, noticeable even through its black tint.

"You cut yourself," he breathes, and grabs him, pulls him toward his chest and starts rubbing at his back. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay, my love…"

Crowley is so shocked at that he stops crying.

Whenever he tried to imagine telling Aziraphale, it never went well. He's always hidden behind thick layers of unemotional-ness, of pretending to be made of steel. The mere thought of being  _ vulnerable _ makes him sick to his stomach. So now that Aziraphale is there, holding him, shushing him, not questioning him (because why oh why would the fucking Serpent be crying like a baby over a cut?), he doesn't know what to do.

He knows he's loved. But when Aziraphale actually shows it, he's left puzzled and almost scared that it's a trap. That he doesn't deserve it.

"Hey," Aziraphale keeps shushing him, keeps calming him down, until he's putty at his hands. "Hey, it's okay, love. It's all good. The cut is gone, see? The stains too. You don't have to worry."

He grabs at Aziraphale's stupid sweater and whimpers softly. "I'm— sorry, Aziraphale," he chokes out.

"Don't worry," he says, pressing a kiss to his scalp. It's too much, it's too much. Being loved is the closest to Heaven he has gotten to in six thousand years, and it's asphyxiating him. "You have nothing to apologize for. Should we go to our bedroom, dear boy?"

"Y-Yeah," he stammers out, still whimpering, trying hard not to break down into tears again.

Aziraphale  _ carries _ him. He carries him, and he's so lightheaded at that he can barely form a coherent thought. He lets him carry him, and he practically melts onto their bed, burying his face on the pillow. Aziraphale sits on the bed, a respectable distance between them. Not to not touch him, just to give him a bit of space.

"If you want to talk about what happened, I'm here, dear. If you don't want to, I'm also here."

There's worry creeping into Aziraphale's voice, and he can't blame him. He should tell him; he has to tell him.

He clears his throat, rubs at his eyes. He's not crying anymore, but there's an ocean inside him begging to be let out. He won't let it. "Since, ah, the year of, of the Flood." He bites his lip. Aziraphale knows Lucifer and him had  _ something _ going on. "Well, Lucifer decreed that, every — every century or so, low ranking demons should like, get — get tortured by… high ranking ones, Dukes and Lords and such…" He shrinks in on himself while he talks, staring at the bedsheets. "And, well, that went on for. Fifty centuries." He laughs a little, full of bitterness and nerves. "You can see that, I-I don't take very well to, ah, to blood now."

He finally looks up to see Aziraphale. He's shocked, eyes wide.

"Can I touch you?" he asks.

Crowley sucks in a breath. "Ye-s…" And then he's hugging him, hugging him hard.

"I'm so sorry, dear," he starts. "I had no idea. I promise you, I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

He whimpers and nods, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes again. "It's— okay. I probably - should've told you."

"It's okay," Aziraphale reassures him. "I understand why you didn't." He rubs at his side comfortingly. "I'm glad they think you've gone native. I don't want to see you go down there ever again."

He nods. "I-I have to take extra care of this body, then. Otherwise I'll end up there to get a new one."

"Yeah." Aziraphale kisses his cheek. "I'll make dinner tonight, okay?"

He sucks in a breath. "Okay." He feels like he's been punched in the gut, with how loved he feels right now. "Aziraphale?"

He looks at him. His eyes are brimming with love. "Yes?"

"I love you," he blurts out.

His look softens, in a manner he didn't think was possible. "I love you too, dear." 

He stands up, pecks his cheek once again. "I'll go deal with dinner, okay?"

"Okay."

"Tell me if you need anything. And please, don't hesitate to tell me anything. Although if anything, it just makes me want to go down there and kill your ex myself."

He lets out a strangled little laugh at that. "You can't kill Satan."

"I surely can try." He stops, looks at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I can try for you. I'll try anything for you. To make you happy."

Crowley nearly bursts, right there and then, eyes wide. He pulls him down into a kiss, as much as he tries to stop himself. Aziraphale gasps, but he replies in kind, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a hand against his cheek.

"I'll go finish dinner now."

As Aziraphale leaves their bedroom, all Crowley can think of is that deserting Heaven and Hell was the best thing they could do, if it meant being together, away from all the wrongdoings of both of their sides.


End file.
